There was a scurrying movement to his right and he jerked to a stop. Not a snake, he decided. Too much noise. Maybe a bird, startled out of his path.
There was no warning of the treeline. One moment Deaken was walking through scrub, the next a branch whipped across his face, slapping him backwards. He felt a fleeting sense of relief that he had found somewhere to hide. But snakes could also be in trees. Were they black or green mambas? Green, he remembered. Able to strike from overhanging branches. That’s why unladen African women often balanced a rock or brick on their heads as they walked, to provide an alternative target. Involuntarily, Deaken ducked. He couldn’t hear them shouting anymore. Just night sounds, screeches and cries, occasionally a nervejumping crash of pursued and pursuer through the bush. Sweat began to dry on him and he shivered, wondering why it seemed colder here than it had in the city. Deaken tried to crouch against the bole of a thick tree. As the panic began to subside, the pain returned, isolated at first and then taking hold of him in a solid, dull ache. His head was throbbing. Gently he began to explore with his fingers, trying to detect any cuts. He couldn’t.
At first he didn’t recognize the grinding cough of the engine but then he realized with a surge of hope that they had started the car. He heard it pull away. He had beaten them, not bravely or cleverly, but beaten them nevertheless.
And now he was stranded, in the middle of nowhere, and couldn’t consider leaving until the morning because he didn’t have any idea of the direction of the highway he had to find if he was to get back to Dakar. And by daylight he would only have seven hours to do that if he were to catch the Bellicose and ensure that it altered course.
“Christ,” Deaken moaned to himself.
Say as little as possible, remembered Carre. That was Makimber’s repeated instruction, through the long night of rehearsals for this encounter with the Bellicose’s captain. Say as little as possible, always take the lead from Erlander. If he got it right, there would be another $5000 in American currency.
“I was told to expect someone aboard,” said Erlander.
“The man came to my office yesterday. Told me about it,” said Carre unhelpfully. Through the porthole of the captain’s cabin he could see the bowser lines being manoeuvred to connect to the freighter’s fuel tanks. Because only a comparatively small amount was involved, they were loading stores with the ship’s derrick rather than a shore crane.
“It’s still early,” said the captain.
“He’s staying at the Royale,” said Carre. “I’ll send a car for him.”
“Who is he?” inquired the captain.
“An employee of the consignee, as I understand it,” said Carre.
“What’s he like?”
Carre hesitated. “He seemed pleasant enough,” he said.
“l hope you’re right,” said Erlander. “This ship isn’t designed for passengers.”
And wasn’t going to be put to the test, thought the Senegalese.
21
Grearson stood self-consciously before the telephone kiosk, aware from Deaken’s experience that the conversations were conducted under observation and wondering where the man was. Activity swirled around him, on the jetties and in the harbour, people at play in the sunshine. It increased the discomfort; for one of the few times he could recall, Grearson felt overdressed in a business suit. It wasn’t the thought of being watched, not entirely; any more than it was wearing a suit while everyone else wore the bare minimum. It was the thought of what was going to happen in a few minutes. Another negotiation, and nothing to bargain with. The lawyer knew Azziz was unimpressed by the concessions he had had to make in Greece. Azziz’s judgement-“the cost is too great”-had sounded ominous to a man who had sacrificed a corporate career to work exclusively for one employer, was fifty years old, and knew it would be a bastard trying to earn a quarter of what he pulled in now if Azziz fired him. Which he might. Grearson was frightened of losing it all, the luxury of an always available helicopter and hotel, and an airline staff on permanent, personal standby. And that wasn’t counting the other privileges, like the penthouse in New York and the yacht here in the Mediterranean. Not just the yacht. The women too. Carole was a very desirable new addition, the best there had ever been. Grearson stirred, excited by the thought of her. He had never known anyone screw like her; she was fabulous.
Grearson entered the phone booth and fixed the recorder, gazing around again in a fresh surge of discomfort. The suit was definitely wrong in this heat. The whole thing was wrong-a stupid, melodramatic charade. He attached the recorder, ensured it was properly connected, then stared blankly at the receiver, waiting. It sounded precisely on time. Grearson depressed the record button and lifted the telephone delicately between his extended thumb and finger.
“So you’re the other lawyer,” said the voice.
“And you’re Underberg.”
“Yes.”
“Deaken’s gone to Africa, as you instructed. He’s going to make sure the ship comes back.”
“The instructions were clear enough the first time round.”
“It was a mistake.”
“If my people make a mistake, your boy dies,” said Underberg. “You’d better hope we’re more careful than you are.”
“We have to talk to Tewfik,” said Grearson.
“I’ve already been through this with Deaken.”
“The yacht has every sort of communication device.” said the lawyer. “We can manage any sort of linkup that you want.”
“The answer’s no,” said Underberg.
“There won’t be any trickery,” said Grearson. “Mr Azziz just wants to hear his voice… make sure he’s okay.”
“I’ve told you he’s okay.”
“We want to hear it from him.”
“Get that ship back and you can hear it soon enough.”
“That’s going to take days,” said Grearson. “It’s been more than a week already.”
“It would have been over by now if you’d done what you were told.”
“We’ve admitted the mistake,” said Grearson. “Let’s start from a new base.” The American was sweating, the receiver slippery beneath his fingers. This wasn’t going any better than Greece.
“There was only one base. You screwed it up.”
“We want proof the boy is okay.” At least, decided Grearson, he was controlling his voice better than Deaken; he was surprised at his need for comparison.
“I told Deaken in the last conversation the sort of proof you’d get if you didn’t follow our instructions.”
Grearson swallowed, feeling a sudden chill, despite the ovenlike heat of the kiosk. “If Mr Azziz receives any part of his son’s body, he’ll know he’s dead,” he said. “He’ll know the negotiations are over.”
It was a desperate gamble, more desperate than he realized as he spoke the words. From the other end of the line there was a silence which seemed to go on and on. Grearson clamped his lips between his teeth, physically biting back the anxiety to know if he was still connected.
“The first will come from the girl,” said Underberg at last.
A concession! Grearson recognized it at once, snatching at the advantage. “We’ve no interest whatsoever in the woman,” he said. “She’s Deaken’s pressure, not ours. You can do what you like with her.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Underberg. He was at the window gazing down at the indistinct figure enclosed in the kiosk, knowing he had been unexpectedly outmanoeuvred.
“I’ve admitted an error on our part,” said Grearson, savouring his new-found strength. “And told you there won’t be another. We’re doing exactly what you asked and in return we want proof that the boy is all right. I repeat, as far as Mr Azziz is concerned, Tewfik will be dead the moment we receive part of his body.”